


A Look at King Edmund the Just Through Skewed Lenses

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: M/M, first: his people and their love, in which narnia looks at edmund and sees different things, second: telmar frothing at the mouth, third: the young telmarine prince - infatuated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 08:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17784176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: In which Edmund's world looks at him and sees threefold. A Valentine's Day gift for my boyfriend





	1. One: Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> the depicted headcanons are those of user @calormen on tumblr

**The West and his Bottle-Green Eyes  
A Tree’s Lament**

~~Sprout~~

~~Human~~

~~Child~~

~~Boy~~

~~King~~

**Ours**

 

Once, when we were still and frozen and dying as we breathed all that we were into the Hundred-Year-Winter, a dwarf-human-girl stumbled into our world, her eyes wide and dark, her skirt wet, her hands sticky and curious; on the lamppost, on our bark, in her snow, her voice in a language we’d almost forgotten, the faun’s lies like truths on her skin. She left with him and came back, a tissue lighter, a worry heavier, and we did not tell the Witch.

 

Once, when the dwarf-human-girl came back, her feet bare in the glittering snow, her curls bouncing with her every step, the West followed her. He wasn’t the West yet, then, was just a sprout with dark eyes and an empty stomach, lying at our roots, his eyes dry. And we did not tell the Witch.

 

Nevertheless, she found him.

She found the sprout-boy-child-human and clouded his eyes, his skin, and sent him back. We were still and frozen, still, quiet as they returned, with two more sprouts-children-humans, dressed in skins and this language of our Majesties, the peculiar sound of it at home in their throats.

 

Do you remember? Do you remember them and how to speak their dialect, how to fit your voice around sounds you haven’t heard in so many winters, so many years?

 

He became the West when he bled at our feet, his Red seeping into our Green, his brother’s sword in the Witch, fireflower juice on his lips, and our aching, living bodies around him. He became the West when he looked at her and did not bow his head, his skin became dotted with our kisses when he instead raised the sword he did not own, his armour too big on his child-sprout body. He became the West when he broke her wand and sank at our feet.

His dark eyes pulsed leaf-bottle-life-Green and when he took that ragged, rattling breath, he became ours.

 

King, you call him, the murderer and his iron stained hands, dirt under his nails and a sneer on his lips. He is not yours. No Caspian (boy-human-ursuper) will ever be.

 

He was crowned when the High King was, when they were still sprouts and had no titles, yet. The world was blooming and the dwarf-human-girl – Queen jumped into his arms and kissed his cheek, her laughter loud and bubbling through us all. His hands were dry, his lips a proud smile, his eyes green-green – beautiful. And we revived and grew around him; the first bloom in a hundred springs, a hundred winters – one. One long winter wrapped around our bark and our leaves and our world and –

 

The Golden Age was a time of war, of blood at our roots; first red as clay, then brown as the dirt we grow from. Each battle field gave birth to so many of us, thorned and dripping red and “the flowers of love”, says the South, with her painted lips and her soft eyes, our West’s hands in her hair, black as embers. And with each battle, he took his sword – not magic, as Rhindon was – and faced it with a smile, his tongue silver-forged, a step behind the High King.

[Roses grow best where blood has been shed, where there is meat to feed off of. It yields our most beautiful sprouts.]

 

He comes to dance with us, his chest as unbound as his hair, in spring when we are new and barely gushes of wind in his hair, plays for us when the air is too heavy for our songs, his head bowed, his scars white lines and his voice a soft whisper.

 

We name him Just.


	2. Two: Contempt

**The West [REDACTED]**

**[REDACTED]**

**[REDACTED]**

**[REDACTED]**

**[REDACTED]**

**[REDACTED]**

~~King~~

**Ours**

 

Once, when we were still and frozen and dying **[REDACTED]** , a **[REDACTED]** stumbled into our world, **[REDACTED]** eyes wide and dark, **[REDACTED]** skirt wet, **[REDACTED]** hands sticky and curious; on the lamppost, on our bark, in her snow, **[REDACTED]** voice in a language we’d almost forgotten, **[REDACTED]** and we did not tell the Witch.

 

Once, when the **[REDACTED]** came back, **[REDACTED]** feet bare in the glittering snow, **[REDACTED]** curls bouncing with her every step, **[REDACTED]** was just a sprout with dark eyes and an empty stomach, lying at our roots, his eyes dry. And we did not tell the Witch.

 

Nevertheless, she found him.

She found the **[REDACTED]** and clouded his eyes, his skin, and sent him back. We were still and frozen, still, quiet as they returned **[REDACTED]** , dressed in skins and this language [REDACTED], the peculiar sound of it at home in their throats.

 

Do you remember? Do you remember them and how to **[REDACTED]** fit your voice around **[REDACTED]** so many winters, so many years?

 

He became the West when he bled at our feet, his Red seeping into our Green, **[REDACTED]** and our **[REDACTED]** bodies around him. He became the West when **[REDACTED]** his skin became dotted with our kisses **[REDACTED]** he **[REDACTED]** raised the sword he did not own **[REDACTED].** He became the West when he broke her wand **[REDACTED].**

His dark eyes pulsed leaf-bottle-life-Green and **[REDACTED]** he became ours.

 

**[REDACTED]**

 

He was crowned when **[REDACTED]** they **[REDACTED]** had no titles **[REDACTED]**. His hands were dry, his lips a **[REDACTED]** smile, his eyes green-green **[REDACTED]**. And we **[REDACTED]** grew around him; **[REDACTED]** One long winter wrapped around our bark and our leaves and our world and –

 

The Golden Age was a time of war, of blood at our roots; first red as clay, then brown as the dirt we grow from. Each battle field gave birth to so many of us, thorned and dripping red **[REDACTED]** , says the South, with her painted lips and her **[REDACTED]** eyes **[REDACTED]** black as embers. And with each battle, he took his sword **[REDACTED]** , **[REDACTED]** silver-forged **[REDACTED]**.

[Roses grow best where blood has been shed, where there is meat to feed off of. It yields our most beautiful sprouts.]

 

He comes to dance with us **[REDACTED]**.

 

We name him Just.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

> The above is a leftover fragment of a dedication to King Edmund the Just by a dryad. The accounts we have of Edmund paint him as an efficient killer and more alike the Dryads than his siblings or any human. This fragment further underlines this popular interpretation of his character and his title as a sarcastic jab at his habits on and off the battlefield.
> 
> -    C.


	3. Three: Infatuation

 

> **F rom the Seafarer’s personal collection of poetry – the first try.**

 

 

 

 _ ~~You  
  
~~I have never met such a smile (dimpled and  
small and freckle-drowned)_  
_I have never seen such eyes (bright and green  
and judging on all that I am)_  
_I have never heard such a voice (soft and full of  
laughter, each word chosen so carefully)_  
  
_~~What  
Who  
  
~~Where did you come from? _  
  
_England, you say, and tilt your head (the  
phoenix calls and your sister’s eyes are on me)_  
_A world round as a ball, you say_  
_Bricks and cold fire, you say_  
_I do not understand._  
  
_~~Why~~  
How  
  
Why did you come back?_  
  
_You called, you say, and sway your shoulders_  
_You called, you say, and I forget about the_  
_blood on your chainmail_

_You called, you say, and flowers bloom in your  
hair_  
  
_You’re ~~beautiful~~      ~~breathtaking~~     new._  
  
_There’s a brown spec in your right eye. Did you  
know that?_  
  
_You do not answer._

_I do not kill Miraz._  
_I ~~will~~ ~~may~~ cannot. He looks at me and I feel  
~~disgust~~     ~~a knot in my throat~~     ~~a flutter in  
my chest~~    ~~pity~~     love._  
_I do not kill Miraz and you look at me as if the  
world has ~~turned~~     ~~frozen~~    changed._  
_Why?_  
  
_Why do you look at me like this? What have I  
done?_  
_What have I proven but my ~~cowardice~~      
~~softness~~    pain?_  
  
_I have never seen such a smile, and now you  
look at me with it._  
_I have never met such grave beauty and now I  
think of your lips, blood stained and bitten as  
they are, both of us in chainmail and soaked  
in ~~blood~~     ~~dirt~~     the grimness of this war._  
  
_Your sister leaves the horn with me and I ache  
whenever I look at it._  
  
~~I want to blow it everyday.~~  
  
~~I wish you were here.~~

 

 

 

 _I read of you in books and poems and songs  
but I never knew that I would look at you and  
lose my breath in your eyes. _  
  
_I hope I may see you again – when I’ve grown_  
_into my tongue and my world and my crown._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

> **F rom the Seafarer’s personal collection of poetry – the first poem.**

 

 

 

     _I   I have never_  
_met such a smile_  
_seen such eyes_  
_heard such a voice_  
  
_II   I have never_  
_felt hands like yours_  
_seen a man talk_  
_in circles around my uncle_  
_and the men in his ears_  
  
_III   I have never_  
_seen your face_  
_longed for solitude_  
_imagined another’s lips_  
_on mine_  
  
_IV   Peculiar_  
_how my chest aches_  
_how my skin feels_  
_how the world holds its breath_  
_around you._  
  
_Isn’t it?_


End file.
